


Head Tilted Down, Knees On The Ground (Phan)

by thegirlwholikestowrite



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Addiction, Angst, Blood, Break Up, Character Death, Cocaine, Cutting, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Drug Dealing, Drug Use, Drug-Induced Sex, Drugs, F/M, Heavy Angst, Heroin, Homophobic Language, Illegal Activities, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, LSD, M/M, Multi, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Explicit Sex, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, One Night Stands, Pain, Post-Break Up, Prostitution, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, References to Drugs, Sadness, Self-Destruction, Self-Harm, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Violence, Suffering, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, nicotine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-11
Updated: 2015-07-11
Packaged: 2018-04-08 18:18:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4315401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegirlwholikestowrite/pseuds/thegirlwholikestowrite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He smiled, closing his eyes one last time, he could die happily now, knowing that Phil wasn't gone entirely and he was still existing inside of Dan. His despair faded. He could die happily now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Head Tilted Down, Knees On The Ground (Phan)

**Author's Note:**

> MAJOR TRIGGER WARNING LOOK AT THE TAGS.
> 
> If you will be triggered by those you can go read some fluff and drink some hot chocolate <3 
> 
> Also I wrote this in like a day so excuse my poor expressing of emotions.
> 
> Save- Tyler Joseph, where the title comes from

He opened his eyes in a stranger's bed, her strawberry blond hair grazing his bare torso, her head tucked under his chin, sheets tangled over his body. His head was pounding, he rolled over to look at the time. It was past noon and every limb in his body felt numb. He pushed the sheets, shocked by the cold air that met his exposed legs. He walked in and out of some rooms, finally finding the bathroom. He locked himself in and walked to the skin. His reflection startled him. He couldn't recognize himself, no one really could. He splashed his face with cold water, gasping audibly.

_Why is it so cold? It's July. It shouldn't be cold._

Dizziness flowed over his body. _Shit, not again._ He found the light switch, the cold room illuminated with the bright fluorescent lights. He pressed his fingers on his eyelids. Everything was hurting. He slid down the wall and sat, the cold linoleum biting at his skin.

He stayed there for a while, trying to remember what happened the night before. He clenched his teeth when his mind wandered off to Phil. Phil. His smile, his laugh, his eyes. He whispered no's under his breath while he roamed the bedroom for his underwear, fighting the urge for another one. One more.

Dan saw the girl stir then straighten up to face him. She squinted against the sun creeping from between the blinds.

"Hey, did you see my wallet?"

"Dan... good morning to you to." Her voice was stern and rude. He didn't understand why he slept with her. He didn't understand why he did most things these days.

He was trying to find what he was missing in meaningless bodies and chemicals.

"Okay I am not going to have this right now. My head is exploding, I feel like I am dying and  I desperately need more Coke but Cherry won't let me get any, I don't even remember your name and I want to leave now, can you a least tell me where my wallet and keys are to lessen my suffering a little?"

"They are on the kitchen counter, and go directly to Jake tonight. He could use some cash, also be careful."

"I don't need to be. It's under control."

"Is it?"

Dan rolled his eyes, reaching for his jacket. He found his wallet and house keys along with some pills on the counter, he shrugged and pocketed them. People had always warned him about the drugs people sold on streets, drugs that would make him addicted. But they had never warned him about the ones that came with a smile and that would fuck you up better than some heroin and cutesy ecstasy pills.

He could as well have both.

-

"Just shut up and do what I say."

"But..."

"Don't whine you faggot. Just lay there and do what I say."

"Okay."

-

He lowered his head as he entered the club, he forced himself to not press his hands to his ears, it was too loud, he could never get used to it, probably never would no matter how much he made this place home. He nodded at the bodyguard, it had been almost a year, he was a regular by now.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Cherry, who just frowned and turned her attention to her whiskey immediately, her red hair abruptly thrown over her shoulder He eyed the stairs leading to the main office, ignoring his phone ringing in his back pocket. It probably didn't matter anyway.

"Hey! It's me, Dan."

He knocked twice before he heard Jake's cracked voice. He heard something crack, and Jake muttering some word between "shit" and "fuck."

"Come in!"

He walked in, taken aback by the way too heavy alcohol smell and something else he couldn't quite make out. He didn't bother to ask, getting comfortable on the leather couch, looking Jake straight in the eye, almost daring him to say something.

" What brings you here, son?"

"Jake, stop fucking with me. I'm here almost every day."

Jake raised his eyebrows, sighing.

"Well you shouldn't be. Take it slow, you don't want to go down that road."

"What road are you talking about exactly? The road that leads you to a mental hospital for addiction? The road that leads to Miracle Mushroom or meth? Are you kidding?"

"Calm down. I just want to make sure you are okay that's all. I have to make sure you are okay, that's my job."

"Why does everyone keep telling me that?" He couldn't control his rage lately. He took a deep breath. "Jake... you have to understand. I need more. I don't want it, I need it."

"Why?"

Dan wasn't expecting a question, maybe more babysitting offers but not a question. Nobody ever questioned Dan. He looked at Jake, cocking his head to the side.

"Look, I remember when you first came here. You were a mess, you cried for hours. I was the one who picked up your damn pieces from the dance floor, Cherry was the one who cleaned vomit out of your hair and listened to your sobs. You didn't ask me for that fucking Coke, Cherry brought you up here and you saw Oli and Reg doing it, so you asked them what it felt like. They said heaven. And since then you use it to cover up the fact that you are a mess without it, or him, or her, I don't fucking now. And you became my son for those six months. Do you understand me? I trusted you with everything. Don't expect me to watch you become a damn junkie."

"Why do you care anyway? Why do I matter more than any other customer?"

"Because you are different! Because you actually can have a future, a family. Goddamnit Dan! I care because you are more than an addict."

"I am not an addict. I just need some more."

"Then go find it somewhere else."

Dan quickly got up, fueled with the anger that the crawling thing inside him caused. He growled under his clenched teeth, his hands resting on the desk in front of Jake.

"Trust me, I fucking will."

He left without closing the door, leaving Jake shouting after him. Under the stares of Oli and Mari, he went in the bathroom. He locked himself in and ignored the reflection in the mirror, a mess in full black.

"Fuck!"

Without Jake or Cherry, he had no one to ask for anything. He put his hands on the sides of the yellowing sink. He tried to calm down, breathing exercises and everything. After the storm passed and left a slight drizzle behind, he dug inside his pockets, searching for the pills he got this morning, stole. He downed them without water and left the club.

He wandered the familiar streets of London, with Phil on his mind, and a new kind of drug in his bloodstream.

-

Being high did feel like heaven. Everything was more vivid and more bright and for a little while he could forget about Phil, sometimes even better, he could actually feel him, touching him, kissing him. He would feel like he was in a Wes Anderson movie with a twist. His limbs would go numb. He would hallucinate, imaging things that weren't there, that he wished were there. He would imagine Phil doing this with him, shooting up happiness in his bloodstream through a syringe or using an old friend, a razor to forget his misery, the white dust would work just fine for that.

He would feel like a God, that was his favorite part of the high, he could do anything. He could be on top of the world, he could be the most powerful. But that would soon fade when he realized he was in a bathroom in a shitty club in the midst of July, cursing at an empty syringe. The highest point of the high would just crash down and take him down with it, his ecstatic memories turning into the most painful ones, Phil pushing him away, Phil leaving, Phil packing his clothes, helping to bring Phil's suitcases downstairs, biting at his cheek to keep himself from crying. It was funny how his best memories and the worst ones had the same protagonist, a blue eyed boy with a jet black fringe.

At that point he would become everything and nothing and the joy would slowly fade, leaving a misery bigger than what he had started with. He would feel cold and alone and terrified. The confusion would be his blanket and another shot of heroin would end his loneliness.

He would weep his name and only his. The aloneness would mix with the darkness in such way that would remind him of the boy he loved, it would make him weep his name. Dan hated it.

It had no ending. He would shake and cry and he would hear music that didn't play, he would listen to the sad notes of the soundtrack of his life, the most prominent one being Phil singing to him. His head would hurt to the point he wanted to die, his eyes would shoot wide open and he would black out after that.

They would find him shivering over the stained tiles.

-

It was about a year ago, it was early July and he clearly remembered that day. It was bright and Phil was smiling and joking around while they walked over to the radio. It had been a fun day, he would get to watch Phil listen to his favorite songs and face expression change to the beat. It was beautiful. God, how much he loved him then.

He still did.

But ignoring that fact was better than accepting the fact he was miserable without him and depended on drugs to keep his minds away from him.

He had put on Talking Body by Tove Lo just to see his reaction to it. He had tried to shake it off by dancing to it childishly but Dan could see Phil stare at his lips and he loved every second of it. He had held Phil's hand under the controllers and startled him, with a cheesy smirk plastered to his face.

He remembered going home and watching as Phil decided to use the speakers he had bought for the first time in forever, blasting the song. Dan was sitting on the couch, and he looked up at Phil with an innocent face with not so innocent thoughts inside his mind.

The music was making every little move Phil made on his lap better. He would kiss Dan and pull away and hold him everywhere and his hips would touch Dan's as their mouth melted into each other.

It was the last good memory of Phil Dan had.

It was the only one Dan intended to keep. Others would hurt too much to remember.

-

It was weeks later his fight with Jake and he was sobbing into his pillow, dying for another 0.25 grams of the snow white dust. He would kill for even a half full syringe.

It felt like dying alive.

He was constantly living in a state of restless panic and he would have cold flashes, he was shivering, pulling his duvet over his shoulders. Every bone in his body ached. He fell asleep dreaming about Phil.

-

"You have to drink it."

"I don't like chicken."

"But my mom said it would help, Dan. At least take your medicine."

"I don't like my medicine."

"I want you to get better. Please."

-

"Mommy, why does it hurt this much?" He was crying into his mom's dark red blouse, his arms clinging to the sides of her body."

"You will be okay baby, I promise."

"It hurts too much Mommy, please. It hurts too much."

-

"It hurts."

"It will. It will hurt. It's supposed to hurt."

"I don't want to. I don't want to do it, it hurts. You can't force me."

"Grow the fuck up, either I fuck you right here or you won't get any more Coke for another month."

"Okay, okay..."

He had cried into the sleeve of his shirt for the rest of the night.

-

He woke up screaming Phil's name, like it was the only thing tying him to reality. It was the same nightmares over and over again. Paralyzed, naked, cold, shivering. It would take him back to when he first stopped getting paid for the videos he no longer made, when it first happened. Then to the next time when he ran out of cash to pay Cherry, then to when he was drunk and didn't know what was happening. Then it would cut to a couple of months ago, the rest of it was a blur of happiness he had named Phil.

He sobbed. And sobbed. No matter which path he took he would always wind up at the centre of the noose of the hangman. He would get lost in the maze and run until he fell deeper in this mess. He had looked at the face of his killer, and he was in love with him.

He cried. He looked at the sad "<3" next to Phil's name, abandoned like a forgotten flower inside a book.

He cried.

Everything hurt and pain was all that he knew. So he cried.

-

He woke up in the middle of the night with nausea radiating from his body, he rushed to the bathroom, doubled over in front of the toilet. He dry heaved. He hadn't been eating much, there was nothing that he could possibly throw up. He swallowed thickly. He washed his face for the maybe fortieth time that day and went back to the comfort of his bed, as comfortable as it could get.

He covered himself in the black grey covers, shivering against his own body not accepting him, not accepting his lack of happiness.

"Save me." He whispered under his breath. "Please save me. I don't care who you are. Just get me out of my own mind, my own body. Take me away from my struggle and please please get me out of here."

He cried into his hands, he became his own comforter. He cried until his shivers became uncontrollable. The biting cold made his fingers into a clumsy numbness and he cried. Cold licked at his face and crept under his clothes, with purple lips and not so gently chattering teeth, she wrapped the covers around himself tighter. His hands reached for his phone and he sat there and watched himself dial Phil's number from memory.

He didn't mean to.

It was seven in the morning and Dan was probably the last person Phil wanted to hear from.

He really didn't mean to.

But he didn't stop himself from listening to his own breath while he waited for Phil to pick up the phone.

"Hello?"

He was breathless. He didn't expect to hear his voice, so familiar and so oddly comforting.

"Hello? Dan? Are you there?"

He stayed quiet.

He waited until Phil hang up. He wanted to call his mom. She would know how to help. She was his mother. She always knew how to help him, how to treat a cold, and how to help him sweat out a fever. But this was more than that.

He was addicted.

But you didn't just call your mom to ask for money to buy cocaine, just like you didn't call your best friend to ask for help.

He just stayed quiet.

-

Sleeping wasn't an option. Either his thoughts wouldn't let him stay unconscious for more than three hours or he was too cold or he would be too distracted with coloring his wrists or thighs or wherever was available red.

That got you high too. It stung a little, and it left scars but in the end it was no different from snorting white dust.

Sleeping wasn't an option.

-

A month had passed, and he had satisfied his cravings with some ecstasy he bought from a couple of teenagers. They weren't enough.

He went to the club again, to see Cherry, even maybe Oli. Anyone.

Icy fingers wrapped around his wrist. He looked up, terrified. He didn't like strangers touching him. He didn't like anyone touching him.

"Dan, wanna come with me."

It was Cherry, and like always, despite her scary appearance and motherly soothing voice, she had worded the question more like an order he needed to obey. He did.

He hung his head low while she dragged him downstairs, where everyone got high and did unspeakable things, where they used to allow him to get high with him until he started to come by every single day.

"I have something for you."

Dan's eyes widened at the size of the Ziploc bag, it was more than he had ever seen before. He started breathing heavily, he reached out to take it from her. She pushed it away.

"You got to pay for that."

"I will, Cherry, I will. I have money with me, cash. I will pay right now please."

"Not like that idiot. You just have to talk to me and listen to what I say and it's yours."

He nodded impatiently. They found a table a little far from the nicotine addicts that made the place smell like a gas station. Cherry reached over the table to hold Dan's hands.            He looked tiny next to her large figure.

Or maybe he was too skinny.

He didn't care.

It didn't matter. Not at this point.

"Have you seen your parents lately? Or a friend?"

He shook his head. His parents thought he was on vacation, his photo edits from old YouTube days had helped to Photoshop some selfies in front of Eiffel Tower or Pisa, not that his parents didn't notice the bags under his eyes or his pale face. They didn't believe him, they didn't bother him either.

And friend? Phil was gone and so was everyone else.

It didn't matter.

"No. Does it matter?"

"No. Yes. It does."

"Why?"

"I want to make sure there is someone that can make sure you don't overdose in a public bathroom or that you don't cut these veins a little deeper."

She ran her surprisingly soft fingers over Dan's fresh scars.

"Why?"

"What why?"

"Why are you doing this?"

"Doing what Cherry, stop talking in riddles. My precious brain that had no sleep for the past four days can't comprehend what you are saying."

"Why are you using this much? Why are you cutting? Why are you crying while you are high? What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I'm just weird I guess."

He looked over at the people, the girl who was sitting on the floor, smiling at the guy who handed her a blunt. The skinny pale boy who wouldn't stop shaking.

"You have to eat. Look at how skinny you are."

Dan never noticed how bad it was getting until he hit the lowest note. That was all he had known. Crashing down with nothing but misery with him.

"I will eat okay? I won't do more than four lines in one sitting and I won't take alcohol while I am using and I will try not to cut okay? I am sorry. But... I am terrified. I am so terrified of this whole depending on inanimate things thing. I am so terrified that I don't eat, I don't fill myself with unnecessary promises of making me better and I cut so at least I feel alive."

He bit his lips, tears running down his face. He wasn't ashamed of crying in front of Cherry. He wasn't ashamed of anything.

"I am so tired of not feeling anything unless I am high and... the only person that makes me feel alive is now million miles away and... I can't get out of this whole I dug myself. I want out but I don't want to give anything up."

"It's okay."

"I am so tired of fucking up that I now do it purposely. And no one gets it. No one fucking gets it. They keep telling me that they are sorry and that I should slow down and none of it will matter once this is over but they don't know what the fuck they are saying. They don't know what "this" is and they don't know how fucked up you need to be to drag a metal blade over your skin to feel a whole, how messed up you have to be to dig tiny holes in your skin where syringes can fit so you don't feel like dying anymore. No one gets it and everybody is so fucking sorry and I just want it to be over."

They stayed quiet for a long time.

Then Dan got high and went home with another random girl. Again.

-

Next day he used a little of what Cherry gave him. Everything felt better. Everything felt better when he didn't have the sense to realize what he was doing to his life and everything felt better when he felt this infinite feeling of supremacy inside him.

Nothing could stop him. No one had the power to end this but him.

He was a whole and he wasn't nothing. He had the power to shoot bullets inside his own head, he had the power to call Phil and tell him everything and how much he missed him. But he didn't.

For two reasons; they wouldn't mean anything, and they both would have hurt the same.

-

Three months after he had talked to Cherry, he ended up in a different club, looking for more.

They gave him as much as he wanted as long as he had the money, which he did.

So no one stopped him when he bought three packets of 4 gram bags. And no one stopped him when he hid them under the drawer with Phil's shirts inside.

-

His mom came to see him. Cried about how much weight he had lost. Cried more. Hugged him and cried more about how she could feel his bones. Then left.

Being alone was better sometimes.

-

One day when he was feeling self destructive enough, he pulled up the folder with the pictures of him and Phil. Him and Phil in front of YouTube, him and Phil in Japan, him and Phil with Christmas sweaters, him and Phil with some cats, him and Phil with Lousie, him and Phil.

_Him and Phil._

He found his phone laying on his bed. He didn't hesitate this time.

"Hello?"

"Hi...?"

"Dan? Oh my god, it's been so long since I have heard from you. How are you?"

"Good. I guess."

The uncomfortable silence grew. But Dan knew what he was doing.

"How's New York? You like your job?"

"It's not as good as BBC and you but yeah. It's good. How have you been doing? You haven't uploaded in quite a while."

"Cut the crap Phil. I know you don't give a single bloody fuck about how I have been doing or else you would have called. If you cared about my well being you wouldn't have left."

"Dan... Did you call to make me feel bad about what I have done or..."

"No. I am calling to let you know that I am in fact not good. The strong Dan Howell you thought you knew no longer exists. Thought I would let you know."

"Dan, I am sorry..."

"Don't. Don't feel sorry. Okay, I am actually better now. I think I am better off depending on chemicals rather than an actual human being to make myself feel okay. And I think I am better intoxicating myself rather than getting drunk to the idea of you so I wanted to tell you these things okay? I am fucking great."

He laughed, like he did when he was frustrated.

"Dan... I... wait? What chemicals?"

Dan snorted. He wasn't so sure of what he was doing anymore.

"I dunno. Anything I can find, everything I can afford. Which covers a lot you know? Heroin, cocaine, sometimes ecstasy. Uh, I almost forgot, LSDs, anything that can get my mind away."

"Dan is this a joke?"

"Does it sound like one?"

"No...I..."

"Exactly."

He hung up. Deleted the folder that made his chest feel tight and his throat feel like it was being scraped by a knife and went to bed.

-

"Can I come in?"

He opened the door, Jake was standing behind his desk, with a glass of vodka in his hand. He nodded. He looked tired.

"My door's always open for you son, whatever you need."

"I...uh... I... may or may not have messed up a little. More than a little."

Jake raised his eyebrows.

"What did you do?"

"I was drunk, very drunk and... I called and told a friend that I was using. I told him everything and I just..."

"You think he'll call the cops?"

"No... I... I don't think so."

"Then you are fine. Want anything else?"

_I want to die._

_I want to cry and crawl in a hole and die._

_I want Phil back._

_I want to try something new._

_I want to die._

_I want more Coke._

_All those things would kill me so, I want to die._

"No, I am good for now. Thanks though. For everything."

"No problem son. I am always here for you. Let it be drugs, let it be girls. Whatever you are looking for."

Dan nodded.

He didn't deserve people worrying about him. Last time someone did that, he ended up leaving Dan in a pile of mess. He didn't want to get attached.

But he had to at least say goodbye.

"Thank you Jake. You and Cherry were like family to me for the past one and a half years. I really needed that. But... I think I am good now. I think I am ready to end it."

"Your addicti- I mean, your dependence?"

Dan nodded.

_No, actually, I want to end my life. But you don't need to know that._

_-_

"Hey Oli, you got some H? I will bring your money in a couple of hours."

"Hello to you too Dan."

"I am sorry, I just.. Fuck, I am sorry okay."

"You are always sorry. You always apologize. Maybe instead you should try to get your damn life together."

"I... am sorry."

"Honestly? Fuck you Howell."

He said sorry too much.

He said sorry for apologizing. He was never unapologetic about what he was doing.

He said sorry like it was a salutation, like it was a hello. He apologized for everything that went wrong. He apologized so much because only thing he labeled himself as was a disaster. Only thing he believed was the fact that there was a mess inside his head and broken shards inside his heart. He believed he wasn't good enough, because no one told him he was good enough, that he was more than what was breaking him. And the only person who ever made him feel human rather than destruction itself left him to destroy himself.

So he apologized for every breath he took.

-

He had stopped reading too. It made his head hurt. But that day when he wasn't feeling like getting high or playing dress up with razors he picked up a book of quotes. His eyes landed on the familiar word.

"I don't do drugs, I am drugs." -Salvador Dali.

He laughed bitterly. He sadly, couldn't relate. He was, in fact doing drugs. And he was more of a troubled breath of an old man rather than a sigh of relief.

-

He was tired.

His head constantly hurt and his memories always smelled of Phil and he tried to call his mom and tell her he was fine, but he was tired.

He had always loved acting so much, and now was a time to play pretend, to dress himself up in clean clothes and act like he was living. He was a puppet with broken strings that imitated a butterfly.

He was high and flying but in reality he was bound to crash.

He was tired of being tired.

-

Hands that were crawling over him, lips pressed against his. Desperately trying to push them away but being too numb to move his arm.

More pain.

Same nightmare, different people.

-

His hands found the still full Ziploc bag under Phil's old yellow sweatshirt, the one Dan bought for his birthday. His mind flooded with relief. He grabbed his razors from his bedside table, taking a last look at his almost empty room, the only place that wasn't dirtied by the new life he chose. Cigarettes littered the kitchen counter, empty syringes on the bathroom floor. But his room was clean. Just like his mind that would soon be.

He seated himself on the cold linoleum floor and took off his shirt, throwing it in the tub, untangled his legs and laid his head on the bathroom wall.

It was almost over.

_Almost over._

He found the syringe with practiced ease from one of the drawers, and he found his vein on his left arm. He counted to three, and it exploded. Memories flooded his mind and he giggled, he loved the first part.

_Don't get distracted._

He poured the Coke on the tile, crushing the rocky bits with the razor, he rested his head on the wall, took a deep breath. His hands felt heavy as he inhaled the white dust, fireworks going off behind his eyelids. He closed his eyes, hands scrambling around the bathroom floor to find the bottle of vodka he had saved. He downed the entire bottle. He was used to it but his throat burned all the same.

This was new. He liked it. It didn't feel like dying. It felt like heaven.

His own made up heaven.

He rolled another line, he was so used to the routine it was as normal as brushing his teeth or cutting an apple. He remembered the first time he was using, how awkward and hesitant he had been about poisoning himself. He smiled bitterly at the thought.  

His hands found his phone, fingers tracing the contact name. He turned the phone off, every distraction, every text that was sent and were too painful to delete. He turned it off, closed the gate that led to Phil. Because no matter which path he took, he always ended with Phil.

His every tear.

His every breath.

He no longer needed that. He had his own paths paved and new roads he wanted to take, that led him straight to hell.

He felt the tip of the razor, trying with every fiber of his being to not give in to the high before he had done what he had been planning for weeks. He dragged the sharp blade over his wrist, he didn't feel.

The familiar sting and the satisfaction of blood filled his body. He did it again, and again. He filled his loss of care and existence with cutting his wrists, drowning his blood in chemicals and drowning himself in the guilt of it.

He was too young for the world to break him, but he was breaking himself and there was nobody to pick up his shattered pieces. He laughed like a maniac.

Colors danced around his eyelids, the red of his blood, the white of the dust, the green of his toothbrush, the blue of Phil's eyes, they swirled around to form a kind of catastrophe only Dan could grasp. He reached out to touch the butterfly he imagined and giggled as his fingers grazed nothingness.

Then everything came crashing down. The inflicted pain grew. The fire in his eyes that once raged on was now dowsed down with ice water. The blizzard that took over Dan removed the illusion in Dan's eyes, and he didn't want to die that much then.

Without sound, his mind plummeted down into a pit of darkness beyond the measure. He found no ending to his pain, no branch to hold onto and in one flashing moment, he pushed the top of the syringe, his eyes rolling up to the sky where he hoped to find a small ray of hope. He felt like he was drowning, breathless in a sea of darkness.

Tears flooded his eyes, and he had no power in him to stop them from running down his sunken eyes. He was terrified. He was standing on the brink of death and he had no choice but to let go.

He cried into his skin, he cried into the razor with empty promises. His arms felt heavy. Crying had always been a healthy release for him, something he found therapeutic. Now it was just a habit to go along with all the other bad ones.

He had no guilt left in him, he was pouring his regrets out in the form of salty tears and blood. He was finishing a chore, with a needless amount of pain that followed him everywhere.

His eyelids almost dared him to close them, it would be so easy, giving into it while he was high and drunk and life was no longer flowing around his body.

He slowly watched himself drift away, being dead was as easy as being alive. Death was everywhere, under a child's bed, in the icy cold breath on the back of your neck, whispering sweet numbness to lure you into it.

Life was different, it existed in small glimpses and when you lost sight of it, you were left in the dark without a shining light, where you had to light your own self on fire to see in the dark. But everything had an ending. And the flames of Dan were wearing out against the cold wind.

The pain that once etched itself into a burning fire now had faded away to cold numbness. Black filled the edges of his vision and he could swear he could hear his blood drip on the cold tile, he could swear he could hear his own heartbeat. His breath came in ragged gasps that hurt his chest. Minutes passed as he laid there, maybe hours. He heard Phil, he heard his quiet laugh, he heard his breathing, he heard his cries and screams.

He smiled, closing his eyes one last time, he could die happily now, knowing that Phil wasn't gone entirely and he was still existing inside of Dan. His despair faded. He could die happily now.

His last breath was a sigh of relief, his fragile, human heart beat one last time.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I am sorry.  
> Like I really am sorry.
> 
> Kudos/Comments will love you forever <3


End file.
